


and the landslide will bring you down

by shortinsomniacs (Liv_Golightly)



Category: Falsettos - Lapine/Finn
Genre: 1980s, AIDS crisis, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Death, F/F, Family Dynamics, HIV/AIDS, Hospitalization, Hurt and comfort, M/M, Marvin dies of AIDS, Period-Typical Homophobia, heavy angst tbh, it's a slow decline, jason is our narrator, what happens after falsettoland
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2020-01-01 13:48:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18335555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liv_Golightly/pseuds/shortinsomniacs
Summary: september, 1981. Jason hears a conversation between his dad and Charlotte, and comes to the conclusion that Marvin may die, too.he isn't wrong.the story of Marvin's decline, as told through Jason's eyes.





	1. mid-september, 1981

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Falsettos. All rights go to its creators. 
> 
> This story contains a somewhat graphic depiction of death from HIV/AIDS. This is not a happy story. Depiction of decline comes from my own family members who died from AIDS, the stories my parents tell me about the crisis, and some research. 
> 
> If you want any reading material regarding the HIV/AIDS crisis in the US, I'm more than happy to provide.

You hadn’t meant to hear it, the conversation between Charlotte and your dad, outside of Whizzer’s hospital room. But like so many fights between your parents, or Whizzer’s loud laughter that Dad had to remind him to quiet, or even Dad’s snoring, it was hard to ignore.

 

“—something that kills,” Charlotte is saying to Dad. “Something infectious. Something that spreads from one man to another.”

 

It’s then when you know that Dad has what Whizzer does, and it’s only a matter of time before he’s in a hospital bed, wearing the ugly grey knit cap, and wasting away to nothing.

 

He’s going to die, too.

 

You don’t want them to know that you’ve heard, so you scurry down the hospital hallway and throw yourself into a chair. It’s almost good that you overheard them, really, because Dad doesn’t ever say the important things. He doesn’t say “I love you,” very much. That’s not his way. He’s never admitted to you that he’s gay, either, or ever called Whizzer anything other than his “friend,” even though everyone knows that Dad is, in fact, gay, and that he and Whizzer are boyfriends.  If he can’t tell you that, he’s not going to tell you that he’s _dying_.

 

The hospital, with its bright fluorescent lights and constant bustle, has sort of become your second—or third, really—home. You’re here whenever you can be, because it’s Whizzer, and he’s basically your dad, and it isn’t fair that everyone else gets to be with him all the time while you’re at school.

 

You wonder, when this is all over, how long it’s going to take before this place becomes your home again.

 

How long will it take for Dad to—

 

No. You don’t want to think about that.

 

A hand on your shoulder jolts you from your thoughts. It’s Dad, whose red-brown curls are a mess beyond belief. His eyebags practically have eyebags. His hoodie and jeans are wrinkled, and you know he’s been wearing the same clothes for at least the past three days, because he hasn’t left Whizzer’s side. Mom and Mendel and Charlotte and Cordelia have all begged him to _go home, Marvin, and get some sleep_ , but he’s Dad, and he’s stubborn, and you doubt he’d sleep at home anyway. He can’t sleep without Whizzer.

 

“You look like shit,” you quip.

 

Dad gives you a tired grimace in response. “Do your mother and Mendel know that you’re here?”

 

“Yeah. It’s the weekend. I wanted to spend it with you, so here I am.”

 

“Jason, you don’t have to—” Dad begins, but you cut him off.

 

“I want to,” you say simply. “Besides, if I stayed with Mom and Mendel, Mom would make me practice my Torah portion a zillion times.”

 

“Can’t say I blame you on that one, kid.”

 

“And then I don’t have to eat Mendel’s cooking.”

 

Laughter bubbles out of Dad, and you bet it’s the first time in weeks he’s laughed, let alone cracked a smile that wasn’t forced.

 

“Mendel certainly tries, but I’m not quite sure how he manages to set everything on fire,” Dad says, chuckling.

 

“And you don’t?” you shoot back. “Don’t think I forgot about the Great Kitchen Fire of Summer 1980!”

 

“I never claimed I could cook! Why do you think we consume an ungodly amount of takeout?”

 

You laugh, and Dad’s stomach gives an almighty growl.

 

“I have some of my lunch that I didn’t eat, if you want it,” you offer.

 

“No, no, I’m fine,” Dad says with the wave of a hand. “I had—”

 

“—probably six cups of coffee and no food,” says Charlotte, coming to stand near Dad. “You’re going to make yourself sick if you don’t eat a real meal and get some sleep, Marvin.”

 

“But—”

 

“But nothing,” Charlotte says firmly. “Go home. Eat something. Sleep for at least eight hours. And please, God, take a shower. I’m going to have Cordelia burn the clothes you’re wearing.”

 

“Hilarious.” Dad rolls his eyes. “Is he—”

 

“Whizzer is _fine_. He’s asleep, like you _should be_ , and you know he told you to go home earlier!”

 

“But I—”

 

“Yeah, no, you’re not getting out of this. You are _going home_ , Marvin Levitt, and I had better not see you back here until at _least_ 11 AM! I’ve already called a cab for you, and Cordelia has dinner waiting for you in the fridge.”

 

“Is it edible?”

 

Charlotte’s mouth twitches. “It’s not nouvelle bar mitzvah cuisine, if that’s what you’re asking.”

 

“Oh, thank God.”

 

Charlotte kisses Dad’s cheek and ruffles your hair. “The cab is waiting. Go home.”

 

Dad shakes his head, motions to you, and you wave goodbye to Charlotte before you follow Dad into the elevator. It’s empty, and the two of you stand in silence before making it out into the cool September night. The cab ride home is silent, too. Dad stares out the window, probably thinking about Whizzer. You think about Dad.

 

He’s complicated, for one thing. You know he loves you, but he rarely says it. He’s stubborn and argues and can’t cook pasta and lets you win at chess and doesn’t yell so much anymore. He’s calmer, kinder, if emotionally constipated. Mendel says that Dad has trouble expressing his emotions because he was taught not to. He’s…a lot of things.

 

He’s also dying, if what Charlotte said is anything to go by.

 

Fuck.

 

Now, you know that Whizzer is dying.  Mom and Mendel had sat you down and admitted that they weren’t sure when—or if— Whizzer was ever going to get better. Every time you see him, he’s thinner and greyer and dead-er.  You can see the bones of his face. His eyes are so deep in his sockets it’s scary. But he smiles when he sees you, patting the edge of the bed and asking what game you’ve brought for the two of you to play today. He’s no good at chess, but he’s great at cards, and the millions of hands of gin rummy distracts you from the fact that the man your father loves, the man who is your father in every way but blood, won’t be here soon enough.

 

It isn’t fair.

 

It isn’t fair, because Whizzer is funny and brave and smart and kind. He’s the best pitcher you’ve ever seen, takes the coolest pictures of the skyline, and teaches you curse words in Spanish while he teaches you how to conjugate “comer” and corrects where you’re supposed to put the accent on the _o_ in “cómo.” He comes to baseball games and tucks you in at night and would tell you that everything was going to be okay while your parents had it out in the hallway when Mom came to pick you up and you’d try not to cry. So why is _he_ the one who has to _die_?

 

Rabbi Elijah taught you the _mi shebeirach,_ a prayer for healing, but you can’t remember how it even starts. And you don’t even know if God is listening, or if there even is one, because if there was, why would God do this? Doesn’t God know that Whizzer is important to your family? Doesn’t God know that _Dad_ is important to your family? Why does God want him to die, too?

 

“Jason?” Dad says softly. “We’re home, kiddo.”

 

Wordlessly, you exit the cab.

 

“Jason?” Dad repeats. “Are you alright?”

 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you reply, but your voice catches on the last word. Shit.

 

“Jason, are you—oh. Oh, _Jason_ ,” Dad whispers, and he reaches down to wipe away a tear you didn’t know you were shedding with his thumb. Carefully, he wraps his arms around you. “It’s okay, kiddo. Everything will be alright. Shhh, everything will be alright.”

 

You don’t remember the last time Dad has held you like this. If you’re being honest, Dad from two years ago probably would’ve told you to stop crying. But he isn’t now, and that’s what matters. So Dad holds you, on the curb outside his apartment, where the moon lights up the West Village, and you cry.  

 

As Dad holds you, murmuring nonsense and rubbing your back, you wonder when he became such a softie. It was Mom who patched up scrapes and cuddled you and dried your tears. Dad never has, instead opting to shrug his shoulders and tell you that your scrapes would heal, and that there wasn’t any use crying over spilt milk. But this mess? This is an awful lot of spilt milk.

 

“Come on, kiddo, let’s eat and then get you into bed before you collapse,” Dad says when you stop crying.

 

“Okay,” you whisper, following him into the elevator and up, up, up to the sixth floor, to apartment G, which Cordelia always joked stood for “Apartment Gay.” Cordelia herself has left mac and cheese in your fridge, and the two of you eat quickly before Dad excuses himself to go shower.

 

He hadn’t looked sick, you thought, just tired. But you’re tired, too, and you’re not in the hospital almost 24/7. Dad might look like a dead man walking, but for someone who is maybe dying, he doesn’t look anything like Whizzer does. He’s not pale, not thin, not wasting away, not going blind. He doesn’t have any of those funny purple spots that Whizzer has on his arms and forehead, either.

 

You wonder if he’ll get them.

 

How long will they take to show up? Whizzer got them almost overnight. Will it take days? Months? Years? Or will you wake up tomorrow and find Dad covered in them?

 

You try not to think about that.

 

You think about Dad’s hug, which was warm and solid, and the slight pudge of his belly that you like to use as a pillow, sometimes, when you’ve had a bad day. Dad, who is very much warm and alive and here and not dead.

 

He’s still here.

 

He’s still here.

 

Maybe he won’t die, after all. Maybe Charlotte’s wrong. Doctors can be wrong, can’t they? They can’t know everything. They don’t even know _why_ Whizzer is dying! Nobody does. Nobody seems to know anything. Why does nobody know?

 

A warm hand on your shoulder pulls you from your thoughts. Dad is in pajamas now, hair wet, and looking concerned.

 

“Are you alright, Jason?” he asks. “I’ve been calling your name for five minutes.”

 

“Sorry,” you mumble. “I was thinking.”

 

“Well, the shower’s all yours if you want to use it. You should get some sleep too, you know.”

 

You nod. “I’ll try.”

 

Mendel calls you a short insomniac, and he isn’t wrong. You collapse into your bed, just down the hall from Dad and Whizzer’s room, and you can’t get to sleep. All you can think about is Whizzer and Dad and how fucking scared you are.

 

You can’t lose Dad, too.

 

Around 3 AM, you give up trying to sleep. When you try to close your eyes, all you can see is a skeletal version of Dad, covered in purple spots, stuck in a hospital bed.

 

So you pad down the hall to Dad’s room, where he’s actually asleep. If you had to bet, you’d say he hasn’t slept in at least four days, maybe more. You don’t want to wake him up, so you crawl into Whizzer’s unused side of the bed. Which, of course, wakes Dad up.

 

“Whizzer?” he murmurs, and he sounds so hopeful for a second that it kills you. His eyes blink open, and he realizes that it’s just you. “Oh.  Jason. I—nevermind. Are you okay, kiddo?”

 

“I couldn’t sleep,” you admit. “Can I, uh, stay?”

 

Dad’s face softens. “Of course you can. Why couldn’t you sleep?”

 

“Dunno,” you shrug. “You know me, I’m the short insomniac in this family.”

 

Dad chuckles. “I suppose that’s very true. You never slept, even when you were a baby. Except you’d usually have nightmares, then. No nightmares tonight?”

 

There were definitely nightmares, but you’re not ever, ever telling Dad what they were about. Not that he’d ask. That’s more Mendel’s job.

 

“No,” you lie.

 

Dad’s quiet for a few minutes. Then, he says, gently, “I miss him too, you know.”

 

“What?”

 

“I miss him, too,” Dad repeats. “Whizzer.”

 

“Is he ever going to come home?” you whisper.

 

“No,” Dad whispers back, shaking his head. “No, Jason.”

 

“He’s dying.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Are you going to die, too?”

 

“Don’t think about that,” Dad says softly. “Don’t think about that, Jason. Just—try to sleep, okay?”

 

He didn’t say no.

 

  Your stomach sinks. So he _is_ going to die, then. It’s only a matter of time.

 

You rest your head against Dad’s belly, and listen to the soft sounds of his breathing even out as he falls into a deep sleep. Faintly, you feel the rise and fall of his body. He’s warm, and you’re relieved that he’s got no purple spots anywhere that you can see.  

 

He’s still here.

 

He’s still here.

 

 

For now.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. july, 1982

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By the time you make it to July, things are surprisingly…normal.
> 
>  
> 
> You don’t exactly understand how. One of your dads is literally dead and the other one is going to die, and everyone’s going about their lives like nothing happened. Cordelia’s got her catering company off the ground. Mom and Mendel are expecting a baby. Even Dad, who has basically turned into a functional alcoholic, is still functional.
> 
>  
> 
> Until he isn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, I do not own Falsettos. All rights go to its creators.

Dad’s birthday is in February, and he rings in turning thirty-six by having a party at the Lesbians’ apartment. You watch him blow out candles and wonder what he wished for. You know that you wish for him to not be dying.

 

Only, the thing is, he doesn’t seem to be. By the time you make it to July, things are surprisingly…normal.

 

You don’t exactly understand how. One of your dads is literally dead and the other one is going to die, and everyone’s going about their lives like nothing happened. Cordelia’s got her catering company off the ground. Mom and Mendel are expecting a baby. Even Dad, who has basically turned into a functional alcoholic, is still _functional_.

 

Until he isn’t.

 

“Good morning,” Dad greets you when you walk into the kitchen. He’s dipping challah into a bowl of egg, and you can’t help but notice how _bony_ his wrists are. He keeps getting thinner, too. You know you saw him last week, but it’s almost as if you’re looking at a different version of Dad.

 

“What are you doing?” you ask.

 

“Making French toast,” he replies. “Cordelia dropped off what she called ‘breakfast kugel,’ but it was—”

 

“—not edible?” you finish.

 

Dad laughs. “That’s definitely one way to put it.”

 

“Dad, no offense, but I’m not sure if your French toast is going to be edible, either. You made chicken that was black on the outside and still raw on the inside.”

 

“Hey! We promised to never speak of the Chicken Incident ever again!”

 

You start to laugh, and so does Dad, but he breaks into a coughing fit. You reach over and thump him on the back, and you notice that he feels warm. Really warm.

 

“Are you okay?” you ask.

 

“I’m—” Dad stops to cough. “I’m fine, Jason, don’t worry about me.”

 

“It’s just that—you’re really warm, Dad, are you sure you don’t have a fever?”

 

“I’m _fine_ , Jason. You don’t need to worry about me.”

 

You bite your lip and fall silent. He’s stubborn, and won’t ever admit that he’s sick or needs help. So the best thing to do is to let him be, and hope he doesn’t work himself to death. Which, y’know, is now entirely possible. But no, no, nope, you’re not letting your mind wander down that road, or you’re probably maybe definitely going to have a breakdown. Dad’s _fine_. It’s just a cough.

 

The thing is, he keeps coughing.

 

It almost hurts to watch, because he’s bent over like he can’t breathe, and it definitely sounds like he can’t. You don’t know what to do. When the latest fit stops, he straightens and runs a hand through his hair.

 

Your heart drops into your stomach when you realize what he’s got on his arms.

 

Purple lesions, the size of dimes, scattered throughout his skin.

 

But you don’t have time to think too much about that, because the coughs begin again.

 

“Do you—do you want water?” you ask cautiously.

 

Dad nods. “Please?”

 

He gulps down the water you get greedily, and then turns back to breakfast, which you’re honestly surprised hasn’t burnt.

 

“Jason, can you hand me the vanilla?” he asks.

 

“Sure,” you reply, and you pluck it from the cabinet.

 

“Thanks, kiddo. I—”

 

But he can’t get the rest of the sentence out, because he dissolves into another coughing fit. He’s gripping the counter so tightly, his knuckles are turning white. His shoulders heave as he tries to catch his breath.

 

And then he starts to collapse.

 

Everything seems to come to a screeching halt. Your legs are frozen. You watch in horror as Dad’s body draws nearer to the floor, but you can’t make yourself move. He’s going to bash his head on the tile, and that image, of Dad broken and bleeding on the floor, makes your legs unstick themselves. You sprint towards him and grab him around the waist. It hurts as his full weight falls against you. You’re not going to be able to hold him up. Fuck!

 

_Let him slide down_ , the voice in your head echoes, which sounds suspiciously like Whizzer’s. _Brace him against you and let him slide down_.

 

So you let him slide to the floor.

 

“D—Dad?” you ask. “Dad, can you get up?”

 

“I can’t breathe,” Dad chokes out from his spot on the floor. “ _Get Charlotte_!”

 

“ _I’m not leaving you_!”

 

“I—can’t— _breathe!_ ”

 

Oh my God, he’s going to die in the kitchen. He’s going to die in the fucking kitchen, with you, on the goddamn floor, and you can’t make your body move to get to the phone. Dad is dying, and you can’t move, and you can’t think, and the entire world is collapsing around you in this kitchen while Dad struggles to breathe on the floor.

 

_Call 9-1-1!_  your brain screams at you, and you practically dive for the phone.

 

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” comes the calm voice of the operator.

 

“My dad can’t breathe! He started to collapse and I caught him but he says he can’t breathe and—”

 

“—slow down, honey, I can’t understand you,” says the operator.

 

“MY DAD CAN’T BREATHE!” you shout.

 

“Okay, we’re going to send an ambulance for your dad, honey, okay? Is he still conscious?”

 

“Y—y—yes,” you manage to get out.

 

“What’s your address?”

 

“107 Christopher Street, Apartment 5C, New York City.”

 

“Okay, honey, I want you to stay on the line with me. An ambulance is on the way to the building, okay?

 

“Okay…”

 

“Your dad is still conscious, right?”

 

“Yeah, he’s still conscious, he’s on the floor and he keeps coughing and clutching his chest.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“He keeps saying he can’t breathe—”

 

“Okay. The ambulance should be getting there now; do you hear the sirens?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Okay. I want you to stay on the line with me until the paramedics come.”

 

“O—okay.”

 

“Is—”

 

But you don’t hear the rest of the operator’s sentence, because the paramedics burst through the door.

 

“The paramedics are here,” you tell the operator.

 

She gives you permission to hang up, and for the third time this morning, time stops. Two paramedics bend over your dad, and the other starts asking you a million questions. What’s your dad’s name, how old is he, has this ever happened before, does Dad have allergies, is he on any medications? You answer them the best you can. A paramedic slips an oxygen mask on Dad. The two that aren’t asking you questions put him on a stretcher and start taking him down the stairs.

 

“Where’s your mother, Jason?” the remaining paramedic asks.

 

“My parents are divorced,” you say. “She’s—she’s at her house.”

 

“You can call her from the hospital, okay?”

 

You nod, follow him down the stairs, and hop into the back of the ambulance. Dad is conscious, lying down, with an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth.

 

You grab his hand and hold it tight. 

 

* * *

 

The metal chair you’re sitting in is cold and your ass is numb. Dad is somewhere in the hospital, going for what seems to be a million tests. So you’re by yourself, waiting.

 

Mendel had answered the phone when you called, thank God, because you’re positive that Mom probably would’ve burst into tears as soon as you told her exactly why you were in the hospital. Or even said the word _hospital_. Mendel had assured you, calmly, that he and Mom would be there as soon as they could.

 

You just hope Mendel isn’t the one driving.

 

He isn’t, it turns out, because Mom and Mendel show up in the next ten minutes, making a beeline for where you’re sitting.

 

“Are you alright?” Mom asks, lowering herself into the chair next to you.

 

“ _Me_?” you ask. “I’m not the one who’s sick, Mom!”

 

“I know,” she says gently. “But Mendel told me what happened. That can’t have been easy to watch, Jason.”

 

Understatement of the fucking year.

 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” you snap.

 

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Mendel soothes in his I’m-a-psychiatrist voice, sinking down into the chair on the other side of you.

 

“I _don’t_.”

 

“Then we won’t talk about it,” Mendel says simply. “We don’t even have to talk.”

 

So the three of you sit in silence, waiting waiting waiting. Is Dad okay? Has he stopped coughing? Is he even alive?

 

Well. You guess that they probably would’ve told by now you if he was dead.

 

Finally, Charlotte appears. She looks exhausted. She makes her way over to you and Mom and Mendel, gesturing for you to get up. The three of you follow her to the elevator. It takes you up to a ward on the sixth floor. And then, finally, she speaks.

 

“He has pneumonia,” Charlotte says.

 

“Pneumonia?” Mom repeats. “Marvin got pneumonia during Hanukkah of 1977, and he wasn’t—it wasn’t like _this_ at all!”

 

“His immune system is compromised now. It can’t fight off infection. So he gets hit, and he gets hit hard.”

 

“Because of the—the GRID, right?”

 

Charlotte nods. “This isn’t a normal pneumonia. This is something nobody should ever get. He’s barely got a functioning immune system; GRID has shut it down. Anything that comes his way can just invade and wreak havoc.”

 

“That’s why he’s got those spots, isn’t it?” you whisper.

 

Another nod. “And why he’s so thin, and has the white patches on his tongue.”

 

“Is he going to come home?” Mendel asks.

 

“I can’t answer that.”

 

You know that she means he isn’t going to come home.

 

“Can we see him?” Mom asks.

 

Charlotte nods. “He’s back from all the testing.”

 

She leads you down two hallways and around a corner before finally stopping in front of a room.

 

“Wait here,” Charlotte says. “He might be asleep.”

 

She opens the door and steps inside, leaving it slightly ajar.

 

“Trina and Mendel and Jason are here,” you hear Charlotte tell him. “Are you up for visitors, or do you want to sleep?”

 

Dad murmurs something you can’t quite make out. Charlotte asks if he could repeat himself, please, because she didn’t catch that, and then you hear Dad say, clearly, “I don’t want Jason to see me like this.”

 

“Marvin—”

 

“I don’t want him to see me like this.”

 

“Jason’s worried sick about you—”

 

“This is going to scare him half to death!”

 

“I think watching you collapse _already did_ , Marvin.”

 

Dad pauses. “…I suppose that’s very true.”

 

So you go in.

 

He’s still got the oxygen mask on, shrouded in a hospital gown and that ugly grey knit cap that Whizzer had had, too. There are tons of IV lines poking out of him, and he looks…small. Defeated. He doesn’t look like your dad.

 

“Hey, kiddo,” he says softly.

 

You know you shouldn’t, but you practically catapult yourself onto him.

 

“ _Jason_!” Charlotte snaps. “You can’t just—”

 

“It’s okay,” Dad tells her as he wraps thin, purple-splotched arms around you. “I’m okay.”

 

He gives you a hug, and your heart hurts because you know that his hugs are just going to get weaker from now on, like it had been with Whizzer. And then, Dad slips the oxygen mask off and kisses your forehead.

 

You start to cry.

 

“I know,” Dad whispers. “I’m sorry.”

  

Once visiting hours are officially over, you and Mom and Mendel take a silent car ride back to the Upper West Side. And then you barricade yourself in your room. You know Mom wanted to go after you, but Mendel had stopped her.

 

“He’ll come to us when he’s ready,” you heard Mendel say.

 

But Mom comes anyway.

 

“Jason?” she says softly. “Can I come in?”

 

“Yes,” you reply.

 

The door swings open. Mom’s belly precedes her now, and you notice for the first time how exhausted she looks. The purple circles under her eyes are prominent and dark. Her brown eyes are tired but warm. She sits down next to you on your bed.

  
"Jason, are you alright?" she asks. "I know this morning was...rough."

  
"Understatement of the year," you mutter bitterly.

  
"I'm proud of you, Jason. You handled it so well."

 

“I thought he was going to die on the floor in front of me,” you admit. “I—I can’t believe he’s _dying_. It isn’t fair!”

 

“I know.”

 

“Why does it have to be him? First Whizzer, and now—God just has to take away my _dad_!”

 

Your lip starts to tremble, and before you know it, you’re crying. Mom pulls you into to as best of a hug as she can, rubs your back, and lets you cry.

 

“We’ll go see him again in the morning,” she says softly. “Try to sleep, sweetheart, okay?”

 

Of course, sleep doesn’t come.

 

* * *

 

In the morning, you and Mom and Mendel trek back to the hospital. You have a feeling you’re going to be spending most of your free time there now, anyway. You’ll have to bring the chess set, or books, or something, to keep dad from being bored out of his mind. A sketchbook, maybe. Even though you know hospital surroundings make for an awfully boring bunch of still life projects.

 

When you get up to Dad’s floor, you take a breath and try to prepare yourself for what you’re going to see when you enter his room. But he’s sitting up in bed, sans oxygen mask, and flicking through the _New York Times_. The IVs are still running, but he looks a damn sight nicer than he did yesterday.

 

“Hey, Dad,” you say, leaning against the doorframe.

 

He looks up, and his face breaks out into a genuine smile. “Hey, kiddo. Where are your mom and Mendel?”

 

“I think they stopped to talk to Charlotte.” You shift your weight a little awkwardly. “Are you feeling okay?”

 

He nods. “Considering what yesterday was like, I don’t think it’s possible to feel worse.”

 

You wince. “Can we not talk about that?”

 

Dad softens. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you like that.”

 

“It’s not your fault. You didn’t know it was going to happen.”

 

“I suppose that’s very true,” he concedes. “Jason?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Why are you still standing in the doorway? You can come closer, you know. I don’t bite.”

 

You can feel your face heating up. “I know you don’t bite.”

 

“And you know you’re not going to get whatever this is by just being in the same room as me.”

 

“I know.”

 

He pats the edge of the bed. “Then come sit with me. Charlotte brought me a sketchbook, and we can draw.”

 

So you clamber onto the tiny hospital bed, and Dad wraps a bruised arm around you. Carefully, you rest your head against his chest. The hospital gown feels scratchy, but you can feel the strong thump-thump-thump of his heartbeat through his chest.

 

Good. He’s still here.

 

He’s still here.


End file.
